Baggage

My very first piece of luggage was a small suitcase, pink roses woven into beige tapestry, white vinyl edging creating a pathway for a shiny, silver zipper. I was six. I carried it proudly through the airport before our flight to Spain. It swished through the air by my side, and when I sat down to wait for our boarding call, it rested by my right foot, upright and patient, until I lifted it effortlessly into the air and handed it to my dad for storage in the overhead bin.
I was a sophomore in college the next time I went on a long trip with luggage. I flew to Mexico with my boyfriend for Christmas, and then on to San Francisco to meet his parents. For the occasion, I splurged on a big, black duffle bag, made quite popular at the time by soccer players (I guess…who else needed a bag that big to carry all of their stuff?). I imagined the same six-year old effortless lift as I shouldered it and strolled casually along the terminal, one hand resting lightly on the strap. I packed shorts, bathing suits, and tank tops for Mexico, and fisherman sweaters, jeans, and hiking boots for Northern California. What I ended up with, as I raced for our connecting flight in Phoenix, was a bag that was not only too fat to carry, banging my shins and bumping my knees as I bumbled down the terminal, but also impossible to lift. It weighed as much as a small, Japanese Sumo wrestler, and, on the rare occasion that I was forced to hoist it to my shoulder in order to move more quickly, I lost all feeling on that side of my body for at least a half of an hour.
Two years later, on a trip to Austin, I corrected the big bag error by packing only small bags. Five of them, all with shoulder straps, all small enough to sling across my chest should the need to run from, or for, a purse snatcher arise. The trip through the airport was easier on my back, but no less annoying; I kept dropping bags as I turned sideways to accommodate the crush of people always present in the Dallas/Ft. Worth Airport. Once in Austin, I spent the entire trip dumping each bag in search of an item, only to find it in the last bag that I dumped. And, of course, on route back home, I left one of the bags either in my hotel or in the back of the rental car, losing forever my favorite pair of pajama pants and a Howard Jones t-shirt.
Ten years later, I'm still trying to work out the baggage issue, although I don't travel much anymore. Most trips are no longer than an hour north to Denver, and for those, I can load up the car with as much stuff as I want. In ten years, I haven't managed to put together a matching luggage set. In fact, that same stupid duffel bag that I bought for Mexico makes most of my weekend trips. I find that in my thirty-somethingeth year, I have moved toward an uncomfortable balance between the two baggage extremes. I always pack the one big bag, still rather difficult to lift, and dangerous to any joints below the hip area, and several small bags that multiply once I turn my attention toward the road. I spend half of my time in Denver schlepping my stuff from the car and the other half schlepping it back. It's not six-year old tidy, but, after a death, several dumpings, a marriage, and a birth, I'm resigned to the fact that I am not afforded the luxury of traveling lightly anymore.
The whole "things we carry" discussion popped up the other day with my favorite margarita/mojito philosopher, and we've both decided that life would be easier if, like the bags we drag to the airport, we could lay out for the world our metaphorical loads in a visible way. Beware the person carrying the steamer trunk, but also be wary of the person with the single carry-on who keeps disappearing to a dark, hidden corner every time he needs a change of clothes. Avoid the woman flaunting the LouisVuitton twelve-piece luggage set because even if it coordinates with her outfit, she's going to need a ton of help getting it out of the taxi. Is it necessary to look for someone whose luggage matches yours? Or can you be a Gucci girl (as if), and find bliss with a Samsonite man? Is it okay to travel with someone who has fifteen bags, if, like a good boy at customs, he claims all of them before boarding (euphemism not intentional). If your load is heavy too, at least you know he can't blame you when you both miss your flight. Or, should those that have to pay extra for exceeding the airline weight allowance, limit themselves to the annoying people who can make it a week on two pairs of underwear, a pair of jeans, a t-shirt and a sweater? The light traveler may resent the hell out of having to travel with sixteen extra suitcases, but at least he's got a free hand.
This baggage debate comes a scant week before aforementioned philosopher and I tentatively step in a car, with luggage, for our first overnight away. I have shuffled and reshuffled the childcare responsibilities, shouldered, packed away, unpacked and ironed out, folded, hung up, and decided to wear the guilt of leaving my daughter at such a tenuous time. Obviously, when I climb in the car the morning of, it's going to tip slightly to the passenger side to accommodate the weight of everything I'm bringing. I worry about this. Those of us with luggage, a lot of luggage, bang-your-shins-and-stoop-you-to-one-side luggage, may have to accept that we don't make good travel partners. Either that, or look for the people wise enough to anticipate our need for a full-time porter.